Welcome to Portlandtown, where no secret is safe---not even those buried beneath six feet of Oregon mud.
Joseph Wylde isn't afraid of the past, but he knows some truths are better left unspoken. When his father-in-law's grave-digging awakens more than just ghosts, Joseph invites him into their home hoping that a booming metropolis and two curious grandtwins will be enough to keep the former marshal out of trouble. Unfortunately, the old man's past soon follows, unleashing a terrible storm on a city already knee deep in floodwaters. As the dead mysteriously begin to rise, the Wyldes must find the truth before an unspeakable evil can spread across the West and beyond.
Rob DeBorde's Portlandtown is a supernatural western, a fantastic blend of horror, magic, and zombies sure to excite even the most demanding genre fan.
Welcome to Portlandtown, where no secret is safe---not even those buried beneath six feet of Oregon mud.
Joseph Wylde isn't afraid of the past, but he knows some truths are better left unspoken. When his father-in-law's grave-digging awakens more than just ghosts, Joseph invites him into their home hoping that a booming metropolis and two curious grandtwins will be enough to keep the former marshal out of trouble. Unfortunately, the old man's past soon follows, unleashing a terrible storm on a city already knee deep in floodwaters. As the dead mysteriously begin to rise, the Wyldes must find the truth before an unspeakable evil can spread across the West and beyond.
Rob DeBorde's Portlandtown is a supernatural western, a fantastic blend of horror, magic, and zombies sure to excite even the most demanding genre fan.
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Overview
Welcome to Portlandtown, where no secret is safe---not even those buried beneath six feet of Oregon mud.
Joseph Wylde isn't afraid of the past, but he knows some truths are better left unspoken. When his father-in-law's grave-digging awakens more than just ghosts, Joseph invites him into their home hoping that a booming metropolis and two curious grandtwins will be enough to keep the former marshal out of trouble. Unfortunately, the old man's past soon follows, unleashing a terrible storm on a city already knee deep in floodwaters. As the dead mysteriously begin to rise, the Wyldes must find the truth before an unspeakable evil can spread across the West and beyond.
Rob DeBorde's Portlandtown is a supernatural western, a fantastic blend of horror, magic, and zombies sure to excite even the most demanding genre fan.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250018601 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 10/16/2012 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 384 |
| File size: | 999 KB |
About the Author
ROB DEBORDE's first book, Fish on a First-Name Basis (2006, St. Martin's Press), reads suspiciously like an indispensible guide to everything wet and edible with nary a zombie in sight. His award-winning online show, Deep Fried, Live! with Tako the Octopus, does, however, feature undead clams and mutant prawns, and his forays into film, television, and videogames have been chock full of supernatural beasties (particularly Good Eats). Portlandtown is his first novel. DeBorde lives downriver from Portland, Oregon, with his wife, Sue, and a pug named Chloe.
ROB DEBORDE's first book, Fish on a First-Name Basis (2006, St. Martin’s Press), reads suspiciously like an indispensible guide to everything wet and edible with nary a zombie in sight. His award-winning online show, Deep Fried, Live! with Tako the Octopus, does, however, feature undead clams and mutant prawns, and his forays into film, television, and videogames have been chock full of supernatural beasties (particularly Good Eats). Portlandtown is his first novel. DeBorde lives downriver from Portland, Oregon, with his wife, Sue, and a pug named Chloe.
Read an Excerpt
Portlandtown
A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes
By Rob DeBorde
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2012 Rob DeBordeAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-01860-1
CHAPTER 1
In his dream, Joseph Wylde wakes to the sound of a baby crying — his baby, his daughter. It's steady, in distress, and not alone. Also crying, softer, but in sync with his sister, is a baby boy. Joseph has a son and a daughter. Twins.
Before Joseph can rise from his bed, pain screams from behind his eyes. His hands instinctively reach for his face, but stop short. He knows what to expect but is still surprised to find a cloth about his head, laid over his eyes. Someone has seen fit to bandage him, or perhaps to cover that which should not be seen. Joseph is blind, has been for five days, thanks to —
Your children are crying, Joseph.
Joseph stands, steadying himself against a wall he knows he can't see — but he can. This is his room, the small corner bedroom on the second floor of the marshal's home. He can feel the loose floorboard just beyond the edge of the bed, hear the wood groan as he steps off — was it ever so loud? To his left there's a small nightstand, and then, three paces, a door. He searches for the handle, but finds none. It's open. He knows he can't see this — but he can.
In the hallway, the crying is louder and there's something else: creaking, back and forth. Someone is sitting in his father-in-law's old rocking chair, the one Joseph repaired after Kate cracked one of the legs. She was going to give birth to a giant, he'd teased her, a bear of a child. Kate said there would be two. She had known, even then.
The crying keeps time with the old wood, as if in motion, closer and then farther away. Joseph is halfway down the stairs before realizing he's begun the descent. He opens his mouth, not entirely sure what will come out.
"Kate?"
Joseph hears the shallow gasp as it catches in his wife's throat. The creaking doesn't stop. He reaches the landing.
The stench of the man hits Joseph's nostrils, a mixture of sweat, worn leather, and gun oil. Stronger still is the scent of blood — not of the man, but other men ... dead men.
In his dream, Joseph hears the sound of metal slide across leather as the Hanged Man draws the red-handled gun from its holster. His eyes don't see the bastard set the barrel of the pistol across his daughter's skin — but he can see it.
* * *
The smell of salt brought Joseph back to the present. It was faint, just a hint in the air, but getting stronger. They were almost there.
Joseph stood at the port rail of the steamer Alberta, having left Portland at eleven minutes past eight that morning en route to Astoria. By his estimation, it was now midafternoon. They'd made good time. Not a surprise considering the boat was traveling with the current, but whether that would remain an advantage was yet to be seen. Thanks to the nearly twenty pounds of refined Oregon firestone allotted for the burn upriver, the captain had promised Joseph would see some real speed on the voyage home.
Joseph smiled at the thought.
He couldn't see, of course, in any traditional sense. That didn't stop him from keeping one eye open — the right — to maintain appearances. It gathered no information, but since the scarring was less obvious, he'd trained the otherwise useless organ to deliver the proper cultural signals — blink, squint, stare, etc. It was Joseph's experience that people were more comfortable when they could look a man in the eye and receive the same in return.
His left eye was covered by a worn leather patch that hid what most found difficult to look at. Kate claimed the milky-white iris added another layer of complexity to her husband's handsome face. Joseph thought he was complicated enough. Despite the damage, the eye still picked up faint, undefined light and shadow, which Joseph found mostly a distraction. He was blind by any modern medical standard, and had been for more than a decade.
In that time, Joseph had discovered those same standards suggested that other senses could be developed to make up for the loss of his sight. He'd found numerous cases where the blind were able to use sounds, vibrations, even smells, to create a picture of the world around them. Such studies were generally considered scientifically dubious, but Joseph didn't doubt them. After all, he was blind and had read the documents himself.
Joseph closed his eye.
He could see the river rushing by below, waves peeling away from the hull toward a shore that was closer on the port side of the ship than the starboard.
He could see the chubby man standing twenty feet to his right, puffing on a cigar and tugging his three-sizes-too-small coat tighter around his belly.
He could see the blue sky, puffy clouds, and, most important, the sun. Such a treat was not to be missed, even in May, which was why Joseph had spent so much of the journey standing at the rail, letting the light warm his face.
And now he could see his son, Samuel, staring up at him, wondering if his father was still lost in the dark memory that had invaded his waking thoughts so often in recent weeks. Joseph knew the boy had been standing at the rail for only a moment, but his approach had been nearly silent. He was becoming every bit as stealthy as his mother, which was a source of both pride and concern for Joseph.
"Hello, Kick," he said, using the nickname Kate had given her son while he was still inside her.
"Hello," the boy replied. Kick, who'd turned eleven the week before, watched his father's face for a sign. Joseph had never actually seen him through his own eyes, but he knew his son had wavy auburn hair, a slightly square jaw, and bright green eyes, just like his mother. The oversize ears and nose had been gifts from his father, which Kick had yet to grow into.
Joseph tilted his head to his son, giving him what he wanted.
"I'm fine," he said.
"Okay. Maddie said I should check."
"Your sister worries too much. I'm fine."
"Okay."
Kick turned his attention to the river. He couldn't smell the salt in the air, but knew they were close because the river was wider. He leaned over the rail, letting the spray cool his face.
"Careful," said Joseph. "You'll have to swim the rest of the way if you fall in."
"I won't fall. Plus I'm a good swimmer."
"I'm better," said Maddie, already leaning over the rail on Joseph's right. He hadn't noticed her approach at all. He'd thought only Kate could do that, and now both his children had effectively snuck up on him in broad daylight — not that the day or light made a difference. They'd been practicing.
"Hello, Madeline. I didn't see you there."
Maddie beamed, unable to help herself. The hair and freckles she shared with her brother, but the smile was all her own.
"Did I scare you?"
"No, but I am surprised you were able to hang over the edge with what must be a very full tummy. Did you leave any of the sugar rolls for your brother?"
Maddie dropped back onto the deck. She licked her lips, tasting both cinnamon and sugar. Joseph could have told her it was on her fingers as well.
"Kick ate some, too."
"Only one! I only had one."
"That's fine, Kick. But was that before or after the engineer chased you out of the steam room?"
Kick blinked, and then eyed his sister. She shook her head — she hadn't told. Kick raised his right hand, flicked his wrist twice, and made a looping motion with his first two fingers. Maddie returned the gesture, adding a jab and several more loops to the message, none of which was particularly friendly.
Joseph smiled. The hand signals had replaced a form of gibberish the twins used to communicate when they didn't want their parents to know what they were saying. Between them, Joseph and his wife had picked up enough of the language to listen in, which was when the kids switched to the hand signals. They generally tried to hide them from Kate, but assumed their father wasn't going to decipher the visual language anytime soon. Joseph did sometimes have trouble following the speedy hand motions, which is why he'd long since given up trying. There was no point, as both kids wore so many of their emotions on their faces.
"We'll be in port soon," Joseph said, letting the kids off the hook. "Go grab your things, and meet me up above."
Kick hopped onto the lower rail and off again before following his sister into the main compartment of the steamer.
Joseph closed his senses, letting some of the emotion he'd felt earlier creep back into his waking mind. Kick and Maddie were born the day he'd lost his sight. He was more than a hundred miles away at the time, and it had taken him four days to stumble home in the endless dark. After sleeping most of the fifth, he'd awakened to an uninvited guest and the first inkling that a new light might be available to him. That had been exactly eleven years ago to the day.
Joseph felt the boat rumble beneath his feet as it turned slightly to the south. Astoria would appear shortly on the Oregon side of the river, with its fishing boats, ore merchants, and colorful houses on the hill. With only a little effort, Joseph pushed the past away and opened his senses to what lay ahead.
* * *
"I see Mr. Hendricks!" Maddie said, pointing to a short man waving from the dock.
He was not alone. At least a dozen locals stood waiting for passengers, many of whom were waving alongside Joseph and the twins. The Port of Astoria was bustling with activity. In addition to the Alberta, a second, much larger steamer was docked alongside, having arrived from San Francisco a few hours earlier. The passengers had departed, but the holds of the ship continued to be unloaded by an ore-powered mechanical arm. Two smaller barges were also docked nearby, both weighted down to the waterline by mounds of what appeared to be gray slate. Neither was in the process of being loaded or unloaded, but a dozen men with guns stood along the docks on either side of the boats.
After disembarking, the Wyldes were met by Charlie Hendricks, owner and operator of Astoria's oldest store, Hendricks' Dry Goods. Charlie was short, round, and bald, but had a generous personality that he claimed made up for the physical "gifts" God had seen fit to give him. He knew everyone in town and had made it his business to meet their extended families. As a result, he was always up on the latest gossip, local and otherwise.
Joseph offered his hand. "Hello, Mr. Hendricks. Thanks for coming."
"Well met, as always," Charlie said, glancing past Joseph to the boat. "Where's Katherine? Don't tell me she didn't make the trip."
"She and her father disagree on the specifics of the relocation," Joseph said, hoping his tone and arching eyebrow were enough for Charlie to move on to another subject.
"Oh," Charlie said, glancing at the twins. "Well, I'm sure he'll be happy to see you. Afraid I'm not much in the way of company. And my cooking is even worse."
"I'm sure it's fine," Joseph said, following Charlie up the pier. "Lot of activity about."
"It's the ore. They found another vein above Paulsen Creek. Big one, I'm told. The barges come in almost daily, now."
Kick climbed onto a pile of ropes to get a better look at the nearest barge.
"Is that it? I thought it was orange," he said, mildly disappointed.
"It is, once it's been refined," said Charlie. "That's mostly shale. The good stuff is locked inside in little-bitty pieces. They're actually building a refinery across the river so they don't have to transport so much unusable material."
"Across the river?"
Charlie frowned. "They say it's because the north side gets more sun — more sun! You believe that? Politics is what it is."
"I'm sure," Joseph said. He slowed his pace, adding space between them and the twins. "I appreciate you looking out for the marshal."
"Happy to do it."
"How's his mood?"
"Lousy."
Joseph nodded. "He can be a hard man to like."
"He's always been friendly to me, but he is on his own. Has been for ... eight years?"
"Nearly ten."
"I know you and Kate have been to visit — more than some families, to be sure — and he has friends here, acquaintances and such, but a man of his experiences, of his fame ..." Charlie hesitated, and then added, "Frankly, I'm not surprised he got a little confused. It happens at his age."
Joseph nodded, but the truth was that it did surprise him. He'd heard the details of his father-in-law's "confusion" from the Astoria constable, who'd held him for a day before releasing him to Charlie. It just didn't feel right. The man had slowed down in recent years, perhaps become more forgetful, but a sudden breakdown seemed unlikely. Jim Kleberg was a hard man, but he was still his own man. Joseph would not believe otherwise until he spoke to the marshal.
He owed him that much.
* * *
"Oh, it's you," said the marshal, frowning over a smile before it could begin.
He'd come quickly to the top of the stairs but now descended without enthusiasm.
"Hello, Marshal," said Joseph.
He was sixty-four years old, ten of them retired, but Jim Kleberg still appreciated being addressed as "Marshal." The job was who he was and always would be. The man standing at the bottom of the stairs was smart enough to know that.
"Where's the clan?" he asked, offering a hand to Joseph, who shook it.
"I sent Kick and Maddie up to the house to get started. Kate didn't come."
The marshal looked Joseph up and down, lingering over the man's right eye.
"Okay."
Charlie came through the door behind Joseph. "Hello, Marshal. All's well I assume. Did you find the sandwiches I left?"
The marshal nodded. "Wasn't hungry, but thanks."
"Oh, all right," Charlie said. He stood for a moment, waiting for one of the other two men to say something. Finally, he did. "Well, perhaps I should check in on my roses, let you two catch up."
Charlie walked though the kitchen to the back door. The marshal waited to hear the latch before turning to Joseph.
"Your idea to set me up here?"
"Charlie volunteered."
"Figured as much," the marshal said, rubbing his hands together. "Treats me like a damn baby, always following me around, watching, asking questions."
"He's just worried. We all were."
"I ain't no invalid. Offered to do some gardening, but Charlie hid all the shovels. Afraid I'd dig up his prize roses or somethin'. Damn things looked dead anyway."
Joseph waited for the man to say more, but instead the marshal walked into the living room and sat down in an oversize chair facing a large picture window. Joseph followed, stepping around the chair to stand next to the fireplace, where a mound of embers still radiated warmth.
"Well, it's good to see ya, I guess. How long you stayin'?"
"The steamer's running back tomorrow afternoon," Joseph said. "Should be enough time to get things in order, I think."
"Not much of a visit."
Joseph looked at the marshal.
"Marshal, you know why we're here. You're coming to live with us in Portland. I'm sure you remember —"
"You think I don't remember?"
"I didn't say that."
The marshal leveled a long, bony finger at the younger man. "But that's what you think."
Joseph wasn't ready for this conversation — had, in fact, little desire to have it at all. It dawned on him that his wife had not come for this very reason.
"I know this isn't what you wanted, Marshal."
"Damn right it isn't!" the marshal said, and was up from his chair and out the front door before Joseph could stop him.
* * *
Joseph found the marshal on the porch, leaning against a weathered railing. Astoria spilled out below the house, the glow of a few street lamps already visible in the predusk light.
"I'm sorry, Marshal. I know this isn't easy, but it's for the best."
"You sure?"
"I am."
The marshal took a deep breath and let it out.
"What if I ain't?"
"Well, I'm sure once you're in Portland this will make more sense. You always said you wanted to be closer to your grandkids."
"That's not what I mean." The marshal rubbed his forehead, trying to dislodge the thought that had been there since he'd agreed to the move four days earlier. "What if I'm not supposed to leave?"
Joseph shook his head. "The house will be fine. And we're not going to sell it, if that's what you're worried about."
"No, I ... I don't know."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Portlandtown by Rob DeBorde. Copyright © 2012 Rob DeBorde. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
What People are Saying About This
A fantastic read, a dark supernatural Western full of curses, magical powers, hoodoo men, and resurrected outlaws. Better yet, it's thrilling, compulsive reading packed with a menagerie of very cool characters. Bring on more of the Oregon Wyldes! —Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling author of Father Gaetano's Puppet Catechism
Move over, Spaghetti. Rob DeBorde serves up his fantastical horror Western with a pioneering apple pie—spirit that is all-American genre-bending fiction at its finest. - Bryan Fuller, writer, creator, and executive producer of Hannibal, and writer, creator, and producer of Mockingbird Lane